The Presence of Sentiment
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: He looks different now, three years later: his patience is wearing as thin as the cloth of his quite tattered scarf. He wonders many things, but only one thought dominates his mind now; how will John react? This must be sentiment. A short one-shot which describes the reunion of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Something to ameliorate the Reichenbach Fall feels.


**A reunion fic! I hope you like, and read the bold phrase on below this one as well!**

**IMPORTANT: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK. Unfortunately. AND Joseph Bell, Arthur Conan Doyle's professor, is the name of the man who was the real life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. **

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The cold nipped at his skin and his goose flesh was painfully presenting itself with increasing intensity. Only a small amount of skin was revealed, but his sensitivity to cold was exacerbated by a long period of absence from such extreme temperatures.

His scarf was tattered, the edges frayed, with blue string sticking out, though more than one chance to neaten it presented itself on the way here. The long, black coat looked worn, yet pristine and suited its wearer, the turned up collar accentuating his long neck and face.

Outside of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital there were no remains or reminders of the events that happened three years ago. Through a crack in the pavement a small, red flower grew rather close to the walls of the massive building. He decided to pick the flower; putting it in the top buttonhole of his coat collar, he believed that he now looked proper.

Opening the massive hospital doors, he walked in, the relative warmth of the vestibule immediately relieving all of his suffering from the cold.  
Quickly walking to the check-in desk, he introduced himself as Joseph Bell*, speaking calmly and rather quietly.

Then he went into the anteroom. Sitting on the edge of a chair, he gazed at his wristwatch, only now realizing that he was about fifteen minutes early.  
In five minutes, he had already gone through the entire stack of magazines in all four corners of the room.  
In ten minutes, he had already went through the book that the woman next to him agreed to lend him. She was rather surprised when his promise to "borrow it for just five minutes" turned out to be true.

These last five minutes were the ones that were the most drawn out. Mentally reciting things known only to himself, his hands wrote invisible messages on his knees, and behind his closed eyes images and memories flashed with incredible speed.  
An old nurse, (obviously one that had probably transferred to this hospital from a different one not more than three months ago and whose daughter had just married a children's book author, he decided), beckoned a Joseph Bell to follow her. Quickly standing up and straightening himself out he followed. And then he knocked on the door to which she led him, telling him that the doctor was ready.  
And then he opened the door without any visible hesitation, though he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he did so, making sure to open his eyes and breathe back out as the door opened.

* * *

The person behind the desk stood up, then leaned against the desk because his cane had slipped his mind. The doctor's jaw dropped slightly and eyes opened wide. He slowly sank back into his chair, still looking at the visitor.

He walked towards the desk, not taking his eyes off of the doctor, and took the small street-flower out of his lapel. For a second, he looked down, because he needed to compose himself to get rid of his uncertainty.

Looking up once more at the doctor, whose mouth was now covered by his left hand and eyes were dropping tears, he moved closer to the desk. Then he sat in the chair right across the chair of the doctor and laid down the small flower as close as he could to him on the desk. He looked down and saw the tattered scarf, the beaten edge of the desk, and the multitude of pens that lay everywhere in sight.

Soon he looked up. His was voice quiet, almost as if humbled, yet deep and sincere and sweet.

"I've missed you, John," he said, looking directly the doctor in the eyes with a desperate attempt at a smile on his face.

The doctor slowly moved his hand all over his face, squishing it, inhaling and exhaling deeply, eyes closed. Then he finally opened his eyes, which were more red now than they were five minutes ago, and looked at the small flower.

Taking it into his hands, he looked back up at his visitor. With an expression of relief, fear, happiness, and anger all on his face simultaneously, he took his time to answer, "I've missed you too, Sherlock. Welcome back, you prat," attempting a smile at the last phrase, but quietly smirking instead.

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**Hope you're happier now than you were a little while ago :) **

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